


Before I Met You

by pilotisms



Category: Marvel, Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: 30's baby, Alternate Universe - Noir, Detective Noir, F/M, Murder Mystery, Reader-Insert, lounge singer!reader, nothing like some mafia ties, some fun crime, some fun pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 19:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17730926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilotisms/pseuds/pilotisms
Summary: A pretty little canary gets snagged in a spider's web.Or, Peter Parker dives after the lounge singer anchored to a speak easy, all while she drowns in inherited debts to the mafia. Against his better judgement, he tries his best to drag her from the deep end.(Post-Spiderverse!)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oops, this happened.  
> Catch updates first on my blog!  
> @whirlybirbs on tumblr!

He comes by a lot the nights you work – he sits by the bar and nurses a tumbler of whiskey on the rocks. He keeps to himself mostly, never looking too invested in the on-goings of the speak-easy. His jacket sweeps the floor, discarded in favor of the inky turtleneck donning his broad shoulders. In the warm light of the boozed-up basement, he blends in like a shadow cast by the chandelier.

He watches, you notices; always watches. 

It feels like he’s the only one in the room sometimes – he’s so keen with circular glasses perched atop a sharp profile. There’s something unspoken on his lips. It’s not a smile, but it’s _something._ You can’t put your finger on it. 

There’s an unspoken sense of familiarity with you both.

You sing on Thursdays. He listens, claps. He tips the bartender and leaves once you’re set is done. It’s routine.

Tonight is different. 

He’s still at the bar, a second glass of whiskey clutched in bruised knuckles, when your set is done. Upon approaching, you catch the view of a split lip and a nasty bruise along his cheekbone. You knew he was dangerous. You knew he was no good. 

But here he is. And here you are.

You lean, fingers gesturing to the barman as he quickly fills your hand with a cosmopolitan. The colorful drink is stark in contrast to him. 

“Come here often?” it’s a jest.   


It startles him; and when Peter looks up –  _there you are._

He’s  _softer_ up close. Not so dark. He’s young, but cold with something hardened and sharp. But, now? His cheeks are flush with the burn of a buzz and his mouth parted. It’s a little funny – and when you lean, draping yourself across the bar to press a delicate finger to his chin, he  _lets_ you close his mouth.

“Hello,” you croon, “Sticking ‘round, handsome?”  


Peter feels like he’s been hit by a fast-track. He clears his throat. You’re  _gorgeous_ – curls pinned carefully up and crimson lips curling in a smile that plucks at his heart-strings.

“Figured I would,” he says finally, “I liked your set.”  


“Oh?”  


“Yea –” a cough. He aims to sit up straight, “You’re a real star.”  


And yet, here you are, paying off owed debts to the bad-men on this side of town. You don’t feel like a star, but right now? In the gaslights of the speak-easy, in the light of his stare? You could get used to it.

“You think so?”  


“The stars  _wish_ they were as bright as you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter sobers up. Peter realizes this isn't all fun & games.

You don’t learn much about him that first time you talk. You’re too busy staring at him — at the 5 o’clock shadow dusting his jaw, at the cheekbones that could cut like a knife, at the big hazel eyes behind coke bottle glasses.

He doesn’t give you much to work with. Just a name, a faint smile. He buys your drink — and then he leaves; his trenchcoat is tugged on and a cigarette is dropped between his lips. Peter Parker stalks out of the downtown speakeasy while his Lucky Strike draws a halo around his head. He’s drunk. He feels it the next morning.

It doesn’t disrupt your distant routine, though. He still comes the next week, still drags himself onto a barstool and downs his whiskey on the rocks while he watches you. He’s a bruised and bloodied shadow tonight — the limp in his step is apparently when he stands to stretch. Peter Parker’s sharp profile glows in the gaslights of the bar and you wonder how many times that nose of his has been broken as you crook out a slow love ballad.

You wonder who the hell Peter Parker is.

You’re a bad habit. He shouldn’t wade into mafia territory so often, but it’s clear you’re rooted here by ball and chain. He wonders what got you in so deep with the sharks. Don Marco’s boys sit in the back corner, rolling cigarette’s and counting their earnings from the week.

“Thank you, boys, thank you,” you purr, trying to settle the crowd as your set finishes, “I love you all, good night.”

It’s his cue — can’t stick around, can’t get stuck. He’s already stuck on you and that’s part of the trouble. The other night was a mistake. He’d spent the better part of the next day delving into your brother’s files back at his office. Without Jimmy in the picture anymore, you’d been left to provide for the three other siblings under your wing.

(Jimmy’d got slapped with a stint in the big house after a botched robbery down at the 5th Street Bank trying to cover some debts he had with the Marco’s.)

You see Peter stand, jaw tipping back as he downs the rest of his whiskey and gathers his coat — you push through the crowded bar, gathering the left hem of your pink, chiffon dress in your hands nice and tight.

It’s like chasing a shadow. He’s too damned fast.

The backdoor claps shut and you’re left there, standing in the back alley of the  _Blind Pig_ alone in the rain.

Or so you thought.

He hadn’t expected you to be so keen on him — there’s a part of him that’s  _proud_  and then there’s the bigger part of him that begins to set that aflame in fear of getting you hurt.

“Whatcha chasin’, canary?”

You blink, fingers curled around the door handle of the bar. You freeze up, eyes darting over you shoulder. There he is — stepping from the shadows and wiping his glasses on the fabric of his turtleneck. Stepping under the overhang of the bar’s awning, Peter adjusts his glasses atop his crooked nose. His cigarette glows red in the dark.

“A dream, maybe.”

The laugh he barks out is bitter. “I think you’re mistakin’, honey.”

“Oh?” you bite, dropping the hem of your dress and crossing your arms. You eye the man before you; you try and seem bigger than you are — he’s  _tall_  and if you knew any better you’d be intimidated. “Then what’s with you comin’ ‘round here, makin’ eyes at me up on that stage, Mr. Parker?”

He laughs, cigarette tossed to the pavement. “Me? Makin’ eyes? I got news for you, honey bee, every man in the room is doing the same damned thing.”

You’re not sure why that dig hurts as much as it does. You feel back and offer a scoff to fill the sudden space.

Peter regrets it the second is comes out of his mouth but he can’t have you both getting stuck. Not here, not under the eyes of the Marco boys. The hurt in your face is enough to drive a stake through his chest. He scowls.

“Listen—”

“I think you’ve said enough, Mr. Parker.”

You turn, moving to pull the back door open.

He stops you.

His hands are cold on your arm — but gentle. His grip drags you back, drags you to his chest and he fills the gap between your noses with a business card. He doesn’t say anything, just throws the line out hoping you’re not swimming with the sharks for fun.

_ PETER PARKER, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR. _

“You…”

“ _You_ ,” he says, “Come see me when the sun is up. If you’re chasin’ this you gotta understand what it means for the boys next door.”

You gawk for a second, taking the business card into both hands and blinking. You read it over again and again — it makes sense now. He makes sense.

He smells like cigarettes and whiskey but he looks like a charm and a half — it’s dangerous how damn handsome he is. You’re stuck.

“Tomorrow then.”

Peter’s lips quirk. “Call it a date, honey.”

And like that? He’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on tumblr for more dumb shenanigans with everyone's favorite emo spider!  
> @whirlybirbs


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter digs a bit to much.

The Daily Bugle’s newsroom is  _bustling –_ you’re silent & still among it all. 

It’s a sea of desks and papers and  _clatter-clatter-click-clatter-CHING!’s_ of Hermes Featherweights on the 6th floor. Out the windows, you can see the growing skyline and you find yourself hesitantly dragging your eyes down to the business card clutched in gloved hands. 

_ PETER PARKER, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR.  
DAILY BUGLE, ROOM 6B. _

_“_ Can I help ya, miss?”  


You jump a bit, startled at the appearance of a short man before you. His sleeves are rolled up and he’s got a pencil thin mustache and a fat tie – his smile is slick like oil.

“Oh,” you laugh a bit, “I’m here to see Mr. Parker.”  


“Ahh, here t’ rat on yer boss?” he chimes, knuckles rapping on a nearby desk as he begins to weave, “Follow me, Pete’s office is back this way.”  


You feel like you’re a piece of meat on sale down at the butcher. The looks you’re getting are anything less than  _kind_ – eyes dart from their typesetters to you and back down; the air in the room seems to stiffen a bit when, from three doors down inside the office that says  _J. Jonah Jamison,_ you can hear an escalated yelling. 

_“Ay!_ Pete! Pretty dame’s here for ya.” 

The small man before you raps on the fogged glass, right under the gold decal of  _Peter B. Parker, Editor / Journalist._ He tugs the door open a smidgen, gesturing for you to go ahead.

Peter, inside, has his feet up on his desk – he’s furiously writing something down, long legs tipping his desk chair back at an angle that has you wondering how in the hell he’s balancing. The coiled chord of the rotary phone is being fiddled with by long fingers. You can hear soft chatter on the other line.

Hazel eyes connect with yours.

There’s a moment where his heart does a flip – you look stunning. Smart and sharp and dangerous with red lips pressed into a fine line. Peter drums his knuckles against the top of his desk. 

“May,” he says slowly, “May, I gotta go, alright? I’ll be home tonight an’ I’ll pick this stuff up on the way – no, no, I don’t need the ration card – May…”  


He draws out a sigh and you take a moment to admire the softening of his tone. You close his office door quietly, moving across the room to settle into the plush leather chair across his desk. Your eyes wander the drab office. No photos, no decor. Just papers and filing cabinets and slatted shades that cast the sun across the tilted floorboards in a weird way.

“Alright,” he chirps, “Yea, love you too. Buh-bye.”  


Your brow quirks. 

The phone drops back on the receiver with a soft  _tring_ and Peter exhales through his nose. 

He looks soft again – not so  _cutting._ Maybe it’s the lack of black, or the way his hair looks lighter in the daylight. The glasses on his nose are slipping and he pushes them back with practiced ease. You admire the curve of his wrists when he does. He looks like a sure-fire journalist. All starched collar and suspenders. 

“Sorry about Frank,” Peter says, “He’s a pain in the behind.”  


“Nice enough,” you hum, “Brought me right over.”  


Peter drops his legs, easing back into some sort of practiced professionalism. You have to fight a smile. 

“Nice office.”  


“Gets the job done.”  


“You write?”  


“Sometimes.”  


“That your broad on the phone there?”  


Peter blinks. That knocked him for a loop. “No. My aunt.“

“So no broad,” you press, dropping your purse to the side of your chair, “Just a nice office writing for a big paper and a business card that tells me nothing.”  


You drop the card to his desk. Peter stands then, hands jammed into the pockets of inky black slacks. He moves circle you for a second; he then settles on the front of his desk. He leans. You feel small under his gaze.

“I’m an investigative journalist for the Bugle. I do private eye work on the side. And I know a lot about your brother.”  


You stiffen.

Peter sees it.

You move to stand nearly immediately, gathering your purse with a look so sour it could knock a man on his ass flat. Under your silk gloves, your knuckles burn as you grip your bag so tight. 

“I’ll see myself out –”  


“I wanted to ask you a few questions –”  


“Is that what you brought me down here for?” you snark, “To grill me? For some  _story?_ ”  


It’s biting. Peter watches as you swivel. You’re armed with a finger that you jab into his chest hard. 

“He’s a liar and a cheat and he got me where I am now,” you seethe, “He ruined my life, caged me up. Put that in your damned paper. Shouldn’t a’ hiked myself down here for nothin’ but a cold shoulder.”  


“He was set-up.”  


“He was a  _drunk_.”  


“Marco’s boys needed someone to take the fall,” Peter says, voice cementing itself with someone more dangerous, “Jimmy gets jail time, you get a contract, and here we are. You make them money, you can’t leave, it’s give and take and take.”  


“Don’t lecture me –”  


“Cut it straight with me, canary,” Peter’s hands are on your shoulders now, eyes narrowed, “You want out.”  


You don’t say a word. You storm outta that office, hellfire on your heels and Peter Parker watching you the whole way. You slam the door to office closed and the window rattles. 

The newsroom bustles on.


End file.
